


Zimbits Tumblr Drabbles

by orphan_account



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blind Character, Drunk Texting, Established Relationship, Fluff, Jewish Bitty, Jewish Jack, Kissing, M/M, Purim, Tumblr drabbles, meet cute, past bullying, pre-zimbits - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-21 06:08:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11937948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In which I write and imagine these two falling in love, and being in love, and staying in love, in a million different ways.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> robot-beepboop said:  
> For a prompt : rainy day AU. it’s incredibly rainy and person A somehow thought it was a good idea to take a walk. freezing and tired they go to the nearest house to seek shelter and oh - it’s person B. with Zimbits?

Bitty liked to think he was a pretty decent judge of weather. Growing up in Georgia, he was well-versed in the whole, sudden deluge of rain that would come unexpectedly, so he was usually prepared.

But for whatever reason, he’d miscalculated. He’d gone for his evening speed-walk to work out the tension of his day, and the next thing he knew he was huddled under a looming tree while the rain came down with such force he could barely see in front of him. He was at least a mile from his, and the rain wasn’t exactly the warm June downpour of Madison.

The dark clouds on the horizon said it was likely the weather wasn’t going to change any time soon, and it was when a vicious chill hit him he realised he had to do something. He could call up Lardo, but he was fairly certain pulling his phone out right now was just begging for death by lightning strike so...

His eyes squinted through the rain and he saw a light on in the house just across from where he stood. It was risky business, but worth a shot. He could ask to stand in their foyer and make a quick call, then be out of their hair. No harm, no foul, and maybe he’d save himself from catching his death.

Darting across the street, hugging his middle, and praying that his pocket wasn’t too soaked that his phone had given up the ghost, he pushed the bell and waited. His foot tapped. His eyes flickered to the door where a small, silver and blue mezuzah hung--less intricate than the one Holster had put up, but neatly carved all the same.

He closed his eyes and felt disappointment when he was sure if a person was home, they weren’t coming. He took a step back, preparing himself to head back out into the downpour when the door cracked open.

A face poked out, then it opened wider and Bitty saw a tall, rather imposing looking man with very broad shoulders, and narrowed, sleepy blue eyes. “Yes?”

“Ah. Hah. Hello there I...” Bitty cleared his throat and tried to swipe some of the water running down his face. “I ah...got stuck in the rain. I live about a mile up the road and was out for my evening walk...”

“In this?” the man demanded, his tone distinctly not friendly.

Bitty flushed. “Well, I wasn’t exactly expectin’ the rain when I went out, now was I?”

“I don’t know. Were you?” the guy echoed. Bitty was about to stomp his foot indignantly when the guy held the door a little wider and said, “So what? You need a phone?”

“I have one,” Bitty muttered a little petulantly, but he stepped inside and shivered at a sudden blast of warm air. “I just wasn’t exactly keen on dying by lightning strike if I used it out there.” As though for emphasis, the storm unleased a loud crack, making Bitty jump.

The guy gave him a careful look, then said, “Wait here.” He turned on his heel, leaving Bitty in the small corridor.

Not sure what to make of this whole thing, Bitty bit his lip, then glanced round. There looked to be a living room just off the small corridor, and a set of stairs leading up to the next floor. Other than that, he couldn’t make out much, and he hadn’t exactly been invited to snoop, so he pulled out his phone instead and hit Lardo’s number.

It rang, and rang, and then went to voicemail. He left something quick, “Hey hun, kind of an emergency, call me back when you can.”

Then he tried Holster, then Rans, then Nursey, but nothing.

Bowing his head, he resigned himself to the realisation that he was going to have to make the walk back when suddenly the owner of the house reappeared with a large, fluffy looking towel, and a hoodie draped over his arm.

“Here,” he said, thrusting the towel at Bitty.

Bitty took it with a muttered, “thanks,” and swiped at his face, arms, then the back of his neck. When he felt at least mildly less drippy, he handed it back. “I just tried a few friends, but no one’s answering. I appreciate the help, but I should probably...” He cocked his thumb toward the door.

The guy’s eyes widened. “In that?”

“I mean...I don’t live that far. And a lil rain never killed anyone. At least, no one I know,” Bitty said, trying for a laugh.

The guy rolled his eyes. “You should take off the wet shirt at least. Sudden change in temperature can lower your immune system which is why people do catch more colds from being out in bad weather.”

Bitty blinked. “Um.”

“Also...I have tea.” Then he turned and walked toward the main room.

It took Bitty a moment to realise he was meant to follow. He scrambled after the guy, feeling a little bad at the fact that he was still pretty thoroughly soaked, and leaving a wet trail of rain water on the poor stranger’s nicely polished floors. The guy didn’t seem to mind, though. He led Bitty through a sparsely decorated living room, and into a kitchen which looked hardly used.

There was a glass electric kettle on the counter, which was already heating, and two clear, glass mugs out with bags sitting at the bottom. “I hope herbal is fine. All I have is mint,” the guy said.

“Oh that’s…you really don’t have to do that.”

The guy shrugged, then turned to Bitty. “Seriously. You should change. I have this, it should fit okay.” He thrust the hoodie out to Bitty, then nodded toward a small door off to the left. “You can change in there.”

Bitty felt strange about this whole thing, but he figured what the heck. If the guy was an axe-murderer, at the very least, Bitty could get warm before he was viciously chopped into pieces, and the hoodie was actually really soft. It was a faded red, with a blue logo on the front which took Bitty a minute to recognise.

“Canadiens,” he muttered, then realised that’s probably where the guy’s accent had come from. He peeled his t-shirt off and felt an immediate relief. His jogging bottoms were still drippy, but the soft fabric of the sweater warmed his upper half, and that was good enough. He peered into the mirror and managed to drag his fingers through his hair enough that he didn’t look completely wild, then went back into the kitchen with the wet shirt hanging from his fingers.

“Give me that,” the guy demanded.

Bitty wasn’t sure how he felt about the guy’s tone, but he handed it over, sighed, then slipped up onto one of the barstools at the breakfast counter. “So, I’m Bitty.”

The guy turned from where he was putting the shirt into a discarded grocery bag, and raised a brow. 

“My name,” Bitty said with a flush, realising how that sounded. “Lord. It’s not…I mean yeah, I’m short compared to giants like you, but it’s…” He rolled his eyes. “Eric Bittle.” The guy raised his other brow, and Bitty sighed. “I read somewhere once that a person is less likely to murder you if you appear human to them. So my name is Eric Bittle, and I’m a high school teacher, and I live just up the road.”

“I’m not a murderer,” the guy said, the corner of his lip twitching upward slightly. Then after a long pause, “I’m Jack.”

Bitty chuckled. “It’s real nice to meet you, Jack. I really do appreciate the hospitality. I meant it when I said I didn’t expect the rain like this. I thought I’d have time to finish my walk.”

Jack just hummed, then busied himself with the kettle when it clicked off.

Bitty was unused to people not making small talk. Working with teachers, they were all sort of chatty—a habit from being in the classroom commanding the attention of teenagers all day long. So the strange silences were getting to him.

“So uh…Jack. You a hockey fan?”

Jack’s head whipped round, and his mouth set in a frown. “What do you mean?”

Bitty flushed, and tugged at the hoodie. “Um. The Canadiens? I recognised the logo. They were never my team but that Price…”

Jack snorted, shaking his head as he went back to the tea. When he had both mugs full, he pushed one over toward Bitty and leant his elbow on the counter, leaning forward a bit with his own clutched in his large hand. “You like hockey?”

“I used to play,” Bitty said. “Back in college. I actually assistant coach the high school team but we’re only in our second year so we’re kind of…just figuring things out. Anyway ah…I haven’t been able to pay much attention the past few years. Grad school and getting a job and…” His rambling trailed off, and he shrugged.

Jack was still looking at him, slightly amused. “Who was your team?”

“Oh.” Bitty flushed.

“Don’t tell me the Pens,” Jack said, and Bitty wasn’t entirely sure he was being serious.

“Well I mean, Crosby’s butt is something of legend but…” He bit his lip when Jack hid a smile in his mug. “I got hooked on the Sharks, actually. Our goalie back at school, he was a massive Sharks fan and he and I got started on a game-watching ritual. I haven’t had time the past few years but…”

“The Sharks beat the Falcs for the cup last season,” Jack muttered.

“That’s right,” Bitty said, then laughed. “Lord, I guess that makes me a traitor to Providence.”

Jack smiled again, this time not hiding it. “Were you any good?”

“Me?” Bitty asked, eyes wide. “Lord I…I mean. I was alright. It took me a while to get my bearings. I had a pretty bad fear of checking, but my team had my back. And um…I mean it was more that I was kind of a mother-hen than being good, but they voted me captain my senior year.” Bitty flushed at the memory, with both pride and embarrassment at the boast. “The strangest part of that was all the interviews.”

Jack blinked at him. “Interviews?”

“I was um…” Bitty hesitated. He wasn’t in the habit of coming out to strangers, especially sport guys—especially hockey guys who tended to be on the homophobic side. But there was something about Jack that made him just…say it. “I was the first openly gay NCAA Captain in hockey.”

Jack’s eyes went wide, then he cleared his throat. “Eric Bittle,” he murmured. “I…yeah. I remember that.”

Bitty’s cheeks went flush and he felt his body tense, like he might have to prepare to make a hasty exit. “It was kind of a lot. Lord, I never imagined being any sort of icon. I just wanted to you know, play hockey, bake some pies. Maybe kiss a boy or two and…” He really, really needed to stop himself.

But Jack didn’t seem bothered. He just chuckled and shrugged. “Don’t we all,” he said.

Bitty froze. “Oh. I…”

Jack shrugged. “I play. I had come out to my team right before you were voted captain. Bisexual but…still.” He tipped his mug toward Bitty. “I haven’t…I mean I never hid it, but I never went entirely public, either. I wasn’t—haven’t been—dating.”

Bitty bit his lip, then said, “That’s…still, Jack. That’s great. I never really meant to come out myself, but I realised in accepting the captaincy it was going to be a thing so I had to tell my parents. They’re…I mean.” He sighed. “It could’a gone worse.”

Jack watched him carefully for a minute. “And now…?”

“Now it is what it is. If I ever do find a cute boy to kiss, I probably won’t be bringing them home for any fourth of July picnics, but my momma’ll still call every week, and we’ll still keep our Pinterest board and…” He shrugged. “It’ll be what it’ll be.”

They were silent a few more minutes, then Jack said, “You should come sit and wait for your friends to call you back.”

“Oh, honey I’m all soaked through,” Bitty said, then realised what had come out of his mouth. Jack’s cheeks pinked, but he didn’t look unhappy about it. “I’ll ruin the fabric on the sofa.”

“I really don’t care about the sofa,” Jack said, then relented. “Let me see if I can find you something else.”

Bitty tried to protest, but five minutes later found himself swimming in a pair of Jack’s joggers, his feet bare but warmed on the heated wood floors of the living room. They were sat on the sofa with a cushion between them, the TV on but muted in the background. Bitty found himself glancing between the window where the rain was still pouring down, to the shelves round the room which had a few books, but mostly framed photos.

“I took up photography as a hobby,” Jack said, as though Bitty had asked the question. “I had…some issues with my anxiety and depression, so I took a little time off and my mother got me into it. She’s better than me, but I enjoyed it.”

Bitty rose, pushing himself to a stand, and set his cup down before walking to the first shelf. Most of the photos were landscapes—the ocean, the sunrise over a lake, a few geese wandering by a pond. Another was the back of a couple, silhouetted by the sunset in front of them.

“Those are my parents,” Jack said, startling Bitty with how close he was. He reached up, then pulled another down to show a teen who must have been Jack—adorably chubby, a little spotty, wearing a bright, new tallit, and the edge of a kippah over his dark, messy hair. On either side were the people who had to be his parents. A blonde woman with his same eyes, and a brown-eyed man with Jack’s same face. “My bar mitzvah,” he said, showing the photo to Bitty. “I don’t have a lot of family photos, but my mother insisted I frame the most embarrassing ones.”

“You were cute,” Bitty insisted, and Jack rolled his eyes as he put it back.

“You’re being nice because I didn’t make you wait out in the rain.”

Bitty huffed. “I am being nice, but because you were nice first. That’s how these things work. I thought you Canadians knew that.”

Jack snorted. “I’ve been living in the States long enough your bad manners have rubbed off on me.”

Bitty shoved at him, and realised he was being chirped, and maybe…maybe flirted with. Which then made his heart race. He stepped away from Jack and went to the next shelf where he paused, then froze. Because on the next shelf was a series of photos which—even though he wasn’t a hockey fan lately, it was obvious what he was seeing. Jack. Jack, and a few other people, covered in sweat and other various things, and smiling, and clutching a big, silver trophy.

The Stanley Cup.

“That was from two years ago,” Jack said softly.

Bitty blinked, staring at the Falconers’ logo on the front of his jersey. And the bright, white C on the shoulder. “Jack,” he whispered.

Jack bit his lip. “Hi,” he said after a second. “I’m Jack Zimmermann. Captain of the Providence Falconers.”

Bitty glanced down and realised Jack had extended his hand. Shock put Bitty on auto-pilot, and he shook the offered hand without really thinking. But the warmth of Jack’s palm, the way he didn’t let go, the way he was standing so close, pulled him out of it.

“I thought maybe you knew,” Jack said. “I’m not usually bothered by fans, but it’s…happened.”

Bitty nodded, glancing down at Jack’s large fingers which were still gripping his. “Oh.”

Jack waited until Bitty looked back up. “I can give you a ride back to your place. If you like.”

“That would be.” Bitty stopped, glancing outside. He wanted to say no, he wanted to say yes. “I should get out of your hair.”

Jack slowly removed his hand, but the ghost of the touch remained on Bitty’s skin. “Let me just ah…grab my keys.”

Bitty nodded, saying nothing, tugging on the strings of the hood, wondering if he should put his wet clothes back on. But Jack returned with the bag full of wet laundry, hooked over his wrist, and beckoned Bitty toward a door which led to the garage.

They were both spared the storm, sat in Jack’s truck which was warm and comfortable, and Bitty carefully directed him up the road, and to the small house which really was only a mile from Jack Zimmermann’s place.

“This is me,” Bitty said, and reached for his bag. He stopped when he felt warm hands on the back of his wrist, and he looked up to see Jack staring at him.

“I’d like to text you,” Jack said, then flushed a little and shook his head with a tiny grin. “I mean…to ask you out.”

“Oh,” Bitty said, then couldn’t help his own grin, which was wide, bright, so large it almost made his cheeks ache. “Oh. That would be…yes. I think I’d…like that.” He fumbled for his phone, but Jack was quicker, and tapped Bitty’s number into a contact.

A second later, Bitty’s phone buzzed, and Jack grinned at him. “Until next time,” he said.

Bitty laughed shyly. “Right. Where I won’t look a complete mess.”

“You don’t look a mess now,” Jack said softly, and reached out, bolder than Bitty would have been, and pushed a lock of hair from his forehead. “But drier might be nice. See you soon?”

“Yes. Absolutely,” Bitty said. “Definitely. Um. Just…just let me know. And I’m going to go before I say anything foolish and you change your mind.”

“That,” Jack said as Bitty reached for the door, “is not going to happen.”

Bitty’s face heated again, and he grabbed his things and hurried for the door before he could prove Jack wrong. He looked back just before he slipped inside, and saw the shadow of Jack waiting in the drive, until Bitty got in. Though it was dark, Bitty was certain he could see a smile on his face.

When he got inside, he closed the door and let his back fall against it. His phone buzzed in his pocket again, and his shaking hands fumbled for it.

_It’s Jack. Now you have my number._

__

__

_I can’t wait to see you again. Is tomorrow too soon?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:  
> Bitty and Jack learn to fear the morbid imaginations of small girl-children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (all of these instances have occurred in my home over the years with my strange, morbid children. Kids are weird, what can I say.)

Coming out of the wash room, Jack stepped into the hallway, and froze. Across the small hallway was a door, probably leading to a bedroom, and on that door was a small, cotton-stuffed doll who was tied up with red yarn and hanging upside down. Jack blinked, then heard a noise to his left and turned to see Marty’s oldest–six year old, Léa. She looked innocent as always, her dark hair tied up in fancy plaits, a serene smile on her face. Her deep blue eyes flickered between the doll and Jack.

Clearing his throat, Jack said, “Hey, Léa. What, euh…what’s that?”

She blinked, then stepped forward and put her hand on Jack’s arm and said in a low, quiet voice, “Oh that. You don’t need to worry about that.”

Then she was gone, leaving Jack staring after her.

*** 

An hour later, well after the meal, Jack was tucked into the love seat with Bitty curled up at his side as Marty and Gabby prepared dessert. Léa was on the floor with a gaggle of dolls–half of them barbie-type dolls, and the other half superhero figures. Her brother was a few feet away, bashing lego together and babbling quietly to himself.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Bitty said, leaning forward. “What’ve you got there?”

“Oh this?” She held up a red-headed doll who had on a slightly tattered, tartan dress. “This is Merida. She’s playing with Thor. Thor’s her dad.”

Jack let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, still a little…unsettled from the doll earlier.

Bitty merely smiled. “Oh, that’s real sweet. Is that her momma, right there?” he pointed to another doll dressed in all black, with short red hair.

Léa scoffed. “Who that? No, that’s Natalia. She’s Merdia’s best friend. Merida doesn’t have a mom.”

Bitty blinked. “Oh. Why not?”

“She died,” Léa said simply.

Bitty let out a cough. “Oh. My, um..that’s…well. What happened?”

Léa looked up, then let out a tiny sigh and said in that same, small voice. “We don’t talk about that.”

Bitty glanced back at Jack with a, what, expression, before turning back to Léa who apparently decided she wasn’t done sharing.

“She made some people upset. So she had to die.”

“Oh. Well, honey…” Bitty started.

Léa shook her head. “She got put in the bin. We never saw her again.”

Bitty sat back, eyes wide, and said nothing. When Marty and Gabby joined them, things had settled at least a little, but Jack didn’t miss the way Bitty kept staring at the young girl who was still happily playing with her dolls.

*** 

“You gotta ask him, honey.”

Jack startled, glancing over at Bitty as they headed home. “What?”

“Marty. You gotta ask him what the fuck. Tell me that wasn’t…”

Jack huffed a laugh, then told Bitty about the doll tied to the door. “…I mean, it’s not really…our business? I’m sure it’s normal.”

Bitty let out a humourless laugh. “Is it?”

Well…Jack didn’t entirely have an answer to that. His childhood had been consumed with hockey. He hadn’t really let himself enjoy other things like Marty’s kids did. He didn’t exactly have the best perspective. “I’m sure it’s nothing, and I’m sure our kids will have their own…ah…interesting quirks.”

Bitty made a noise under his breath, and said nothing else.

*** 

Jack skated up to Marty at the end of practise the next day, slipping into French. “Thank you for dinner yesterday. Bits and I enjoyed it.”

Marty grinned. “You know we’re happy to have you any time. The kids love having you over.”

Jack laughed. “Hah. Yeah, about that. Ah, Léa was telling me about her euh…dolls…”

“Oh.” Marty nodded. “Yeah, that.”

“I mean that’s…it was interesting,” Jack tried, desperate not to insult his co-captain. “Bitty’s just…neither of us have a lot of experience with kids, but we want them some day. I wasn’t sure if all kids…you know. Played like that.”

Marty said nothing, only gave Jack a slight smile, and a pat on the shoulder before skating away. That did not bode well.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ohjustletmewriteinpeace asked:  
> For prompts, consider: Jack gets intense into Purim costumes despite not caring about Halloween. Haus shenanigans ensue.

At the counter, Bitty startled as a post it note slammed onto the counter next to him, just under a large hand. A large hand he immediately recognised as his captain, who had been rather illusive the past few days.

With a frown, Bitty picked up the note and stared at Jack’s distinctive writing.

The Sun.

He frowned. “Jack…what…”

“Holy Shit,” came Holster’s voice from the doorway, waving his own post-it. “Is it time?”

“It’s McFuckin’Time,” Shitty crowed from where he was sat on the Green Sofa of Death.

Bitty cleared his throat. “Time…?”

“Purim Costumes bay-bay!” Holster declared. “Every year our glorious, amazing, wonderful, beautiful…”

“Enough,” Jack said dryly.

“…captain here, comes up with the perfect group costume with the haus. We help ever year with the costume parade and it’s our job, nay, our duty, to look on point,” Holster finished.

Bitty stared at Jack. This Jack. The Jack who managed, at best, to wear a cat ears and a bit of Lardo’s eyeliner on his nose and cheeks the one Halloween he dressed up. “Um.” He decided it was best not to point that out. “Why does mine say the sun?”

“We’re going as the solar system, and euh..obviously you’re the uh…sun,” Jack said, then rubbed the back of his neck and actually blushed. Which was…weird. “Anyway, Lardo will help you out with yours.” Then he rushed out of the room.

Also weird.

Bitty turned his head from where Holster was shouting, “HEY SHITS, CAN I GET A LOOK AT URANUS?”

Yeah. This was going to be…interesting.

*** 

Purim was one of Bitty’s favourite holidays–the Megillah, the food basket giving (not that he was biased but yeah he kind of loved that best of all), keeping pockets full of coins and cash to hand out, watching all the little ones so excited to dress up, the costume parade…

The synagogue near Samwell was teaming with both students, and the neighbourhood families, so it was chaos, but Bitty was enjoying it. He sat with Lardo and helped with face-paint for the kids, and passed out the cookies he’d baked, and watched the kids squeal and march along the stage to show off their costumes.

He sat next to Jack during the Megillah, feeling a little weird so bright and yellow, which was a stark contrast to Jack’s deeper purples and blues of Neptune. But he had to admit, it was a clever idea. He and Jack looked at each other a few times, smiling, and Bitty felt a nice warmth settling in his limbs.

***

“So,” Bitty asked as they strolled back toward the haus, “can I ask why it was obvious I was the sun?”

Jack coughed, glanced round, but they were mostly alone, the rest of the haus several metres ahead. “It just…fit,” he said, then sighed. “You’re just…you’re bright. You’re the brightest spot in the haus, Bittle. You give everyone so much life there. And everyone sort of…revolves round you and I just…wanted to…represent that.” He trailed off with a helpless shrug which was so endearing, it almost hurt.

“Careful,” Bitty chirped, elbowing Jack lightly in the ribs, “someone might think you’re trying to pay me a compliment.”

Jack rolled his eyes and elbowed back. “Careful, someone might think you’re trying to avoid accepting it.”

Bitty looked at him, slightly startled, and Jack looked back. They shared a soft grin, and then Bitty said very quietly, “Thank you, Jack. I had a lot of fun tonight. Best Purim in a long while.”

Jack’s smile matched Bitty’s and he leant in slowly, voice soft, “Yeah, Bittle. I had a really good time, too.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> piesandpucks asked:  
> for the prompts could you write holster, jack, and bitty all hanging out in the kitchen together making some good jewish food

“Bits…”

“Bittle, I really don’t think…”

“Nope.” Bitty crossed his arms, his back to the oven, his eyes narrow. “Y’all are gonna hush those mouths and get to rolling and kneading, and I’m gonna be workin’ on this jam, and I’m not going to hear another word about settlers or catans or sheep or…”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Holster grumbled.

“Ah!” Bitty said, turning and pointing his stirring spoon at him. A glob of filling fell to the floor, but he paid no mind. “What did I just say.”

Jack and Holster looked properly chastised, and Jack went back to kneading the challah dough, Holster went back to rolling out the dough for the hamentashen, and Bitty went back to the jam.

“This is how my momma solved problems, and it worked on me, and trust me, I’m a helluva lot more stubborn than the two’a you.”

He missed the way Jack and Holster glanced at each other, both rolling their eyes in solidarity because yes…that was entirely true. But they also knew better than to argue with Bitty when he had an idea in his head.

A little while later, the cookies were cooling, and Holster was peering over Jack’s shoulder, trying to backseat drive the braiding. “No…bro come on, you’ve got to…that’s not tight enough, it’s gonna…”

“Adam,” Bitty said, whacking Holster on the hip with the back of his hand, “let him do it.”

Holster sniffed. “It’s not going to come out right.”

“It’ll come out just fine,” Bitty said, and Jack glanced over, pink in the cheeks, his tongue between his teeth, his brows still dipped in concentration as his fingers carefully worked the dough braids. “And anyway even if it’s not perfect, it’s still going to taste good.”

Holster huffed, but he backed away, eyed the cookies, then looked at Bitty. “What’s the point of all this, again?”

“Well, y’all just spent an hour making challah and cookies and no one got murdered. Or… too badly insulted,” Bitty said with a shrug. “And y’all had fun. Don’t tell me you didn’t.” No one seemed inclined to argue, even if they didn’t entirely agree, either.

Jack sat back from his work, frowning at the bread, but looking ultimately satisfied. “It’s the best I can do.”

“Sweetheart, that looks wonderful,” Bitty said. It didn’t. The braid wasn’t tight enough and it probably wasn’t going to bake up with the nice twists Bitty had ready to eat every Shabbat morning but…the smile on Jack’s face when Bitty said that, was worth the tiny embellishment. It was more than worth it.

“Always playing favourites,” Holster muttered as Bitty bustled past him.

Bitty winked. “Honey, your cookies look amazing too, okay? No one’s playing favourites round here. Now you plate us up some and we’ll take them into the living room and watch some Ghosthunters.”

“Oh hell yeah!” Holster scrambled to do as Bitty asked.

Jack hung back slightly, his hip leant against the counter as he watched Bitty put the towel over the dough for the last prove. “It really is terrible, isn’t it?” he asked after Holster had gone into the living room.

“It’s fine, Jack. Honestly,” Bitty said.

Jack shook his head. “It isn’t, but I appreciate it. This actually was really nice. I didn’t know I needed it until now.”

Bitty hummed, then reached out and squeezed his arm. He didn’t pull back right away, and Jack didn’t either. After a moment, he looked Jack in the eye and said, “You know I’ve got your back.”

Jack’s shoulders released a line of tension, and he leant into Bitty’s touch. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. Now come on, before Holster eats all the honey ones,” and he slung his arm round Bitty’s shoulder and, laughing, pulled him out of the kitchen.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ariahearthockey said:  
> Drabble prompt: zimbits au where they accidentally switched their phones at the supermarket or something.

“Would you like to hear the story of how I died?”

Over the counter, nose wrinkled with a grin, Lardo poured a fresh cup of coffee and slid it over toward Bitty. “Always. Also I’m impressed with your corporeal talents. It takes most ghosts at least a few hundred years to achieve this level of coffee drinking.”

“I’ll thank you,” Bitty said, pointing his spoon at her, “to save all chirps for the end of the lecture, Miss Duan.”

Lardo held up her hands in surrender, then glanced over at her girlfriend who was trying to assemble one of the new barstools they bought for the front counter. “Sorry, sorry. Proceed, Mr Bittle.”

Bitty sighed dramatically, mostly for effect, then eyed her to make sure he had her full attention. “So there I was, in the pasta aisle, a cute, lonely, single gay trying to fill my shopping list. I’m looking down into my little handbasket—and I suppose this part _is_ my fault, but…whatever. Anyway, I decide it’s time to head for the cheese when it all comes to a crashing halt…”

*** 

Bitty had experienced surreal moments before—generally born of extreme embarrassment—but it had been a while since he was a clumsy adolescent desperately trying to fly under the Jock Radar. He’d done his time in public education—had finished college, had even gotten himself a cute boyfriend or two, even if they hadn’t lasted all that long.

So when he found himself stood in the middle of fallen groceries and hand baskets, his face all-but pressed into a large, expansive, well-muscled _rock hard_ chest, it took his brain a minute to catch up with itself and remind him to throw himself backward and begin apologising profusely.

When that finally did happen, the guy—the ridiculously dreamy sort you only see on TV with a but that won’t quit, sleepy blue eyes, and boyband hair—reached out to steady him. “It’s fine,” the guy said, and oh of _course_ he’d have an accent too. Of course. “Nothing’s broken.”

That, thankfully, was true. The guy’s basket was mainly loaded with fresh fruit and veg, and a couple boxes of dry pasta.

Bitty’s fare had also been mostly boxed items, so at least he didn’t have to deal with calling an employee to deal with some glass jar of pasta explosion. All the same, he was bright red as he knelt down to sort out their stuff.

And he wasn’t going to lie, it was a little bit like one of those RomCom meet-cute moments as they looked into each other’s eyes, trading off boxes of spaghetti, laughing all embarrassed and shy. Then the guy picked something up amongst his celery and said, “Euh…your phone?”

Bitty took it, and saw another black phone lying a few feet away near the guy’s fallen tomatoes. “And uh…that’s yours?”

The guy turned round, then shuffled back to grab it.

Five minutes, no harm no foul. Just some awkward laughter and Bitty wishing he had at least one single smooth bone in his body—and also wishing that men had big, bright flashing signs that declared their sexuality so he could utilise this fantasy smoothness and fantasy braveness and ask the guy out.

He settled for an awkward shuffle, then the guy saying, “Well…”

And Bitty saying, “I should ah…get to my cheeses,” then hurrying off and hating himself for the rest of his short life because, ‘get to my cheeses?’ What the actual fuck, Bittle?

*** 

“Okay I get it,” Lardo said, putting a hand up. “I mean, embarrassing, but cute. So why are you dead?”

“Because,” Bitty said, then dramatically reached into his pocket and slammed his phone on the counter. “This isn’t mine. It’s his.”

He fully expected the widening of her eyes, and the way she lunged at it. He didn’t even try and stop her because all that anyone was capable of doing was lighting up the screen. It was both password and thumbprint locked.

“Is this a fucking goose?” she demanded, shoving the screen in Bitty’s face.

He sighed. “Yeah. It’s a goose.” It should have been ridiculous, but it wasn’t. It was endearing. _And_ Bitty was pretty sure the goose had come from the pond with the running track because Bitty was pretty sure he’d been chased by the winged little bastard more than once on his mid-morning run. Which meant the guy had a thing for evil geese, and it meant Bitty’s taste in men might be somewhat questionable. Or that it had been so long he was just starting to get desperate.

“Okay so…you have his phone, and he has yours. Easy. Just call it.”

“Well I thought of that,” Bitty said. “But I can’t remember my number.”

Lardon blinked at him. “You…don’t remember your number.”

At that, Ford put down the leg of the stool and marched over, hands on your hips. “What do you mean you don’t remember your number. Bits, you’ve had that damn number since Freshman year.”

“Junior year,” Bitty admitted miserable. “Of high school.”

“How do you,” Ford started, then trailed off, shaking her head. “No, you know what, I don’t even want to know.”

“I do,” Lardo said, smacking her hand on the counter. “How the hell do you not know your own number, Eric? How do you even survive.”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Bitty defended irritably. “I don’t really give it out, do I? I mean, I’ve worked at the same dang school forever, and it’s not like cute boys have been lining up to date me, now have they. And you’ve had it since my frog year.” He frowned. “Anyway, I would have just gone home to finish my death journey and let my soul be judged, except I needed you to call my phone and see if I can get it back. My Beyonce pictures are on there. I can’t lose those.”

Lardo sighed, then reached into her pocket for her phone. “You are ridiculous, Bitty. I hope you realise that.”

“I have been well aware nearly my entire life. Now just…let’s get this over with so I can rest in peace,” Bitty groaned. He let his head drop to the counter, closing his eyes as she dialled.

“Hey, hi, so I’m calling about the phone you apparently have by accident? Mmhmm, yeah that’s him. Yeah. He’s at my café…yes he _is_ the short guy with the freckles and the blonde hair. Mmhmm. Yeah actually he said he’d love to have coffee with you if…”

“Lardo!”

But she was already rattling off the name of the café and the address. Bitty ignored her triumphant smile as she passed the phone back. “Canadian, eh?”

Bitty blinked at her. “Is that what…”

“Ransom dated that guy last year? The soccer guy, Felix? Anyway I totally recognised it. Anyway, go sit and I’ll make you something to eat so you can at least have something in your stomach before you have to finish your journey through the underworld.” She shooed him to a table, which Bitty took near the window since the place was all-but empty and would stay that way until the later afternoon rush.

Bitty kept his eyes on the stranger’s phone, wishing he’d just put a damn phone case or something on it to save him the trouble of this whole mess, but also thinking he’d never get to see the cute blue-eyed guy again if he’d actually done that. Then he reached for the phone reflexively to tweet about this hot mess when he realised that he didn’t even have access to his phone and well..

“Damn it,” he muttered to himself, then sat back, his head thunking against the booth.

His eyes closed, and it wasn’t until he heard the soft ding of the door opening that he sat up, jumping so high he smacked his knee on the table. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out, and he wrenched his head toward the door and yeah…

There he was.

All…tall and good looking and just as flustered as Bitty. He was rubbing the back of his neck, still blushing a little bit as he approached the table. “Ah. Hi. Um…I have…” He held out Bitty’s phone, and Bitty took it with slightly trembling hands.

“Oh I…thanks um. Lord, I’m so sorry that happened. I didn’t even check the screen, I just sort of…” He realised he was babbling, then blushed. “I’m Eric, by the way.”

“Jack,” he said, then shuffled his feet awkwardly like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

“Where are my manners, _heavens_ , please sit. Lards said she’d bring us some coffees or something so…” As Jack sat, Bitty looked over and saw both Lardo and Ford staring at him with open mouths and wide eyes. Frowning, he cleared his throat. “I ah…should go see what…coffee. Do you want coffee?”

Jack gave him a quirked brow, then nodded as Bitty scrambled from his seat and hurried to the counter. “What are y’all staring at?” he hissed.

Lardo cleared her throat, then leant forward, “Bitty. Do you know who that is?”

Bitty blinked. “Um?”

“That is Jack Zimmermann.”

“…which is supposed to mean?” he pressed.

In spite of Jack clearly pretending not to look at them, Lardo let her head thump down on the counter. “Jack Zimmermann. Like hockey prodigy guy. Holster made me watch this three hour special on ESPN. The guy was drafted second to the Pens, traded three times before winning a Stanley Cup, then blew out his knee, retired from hockey, came out as Bi, and now owns the Providence Falconers. He’s the first openly LGBT+ owner of an NHL team.”

“Oh,” Bitty said, then glanced back at Jack who was now openly staring. “Oh. Oh so he’s…”

Lardo shoved two cups of coffee at him. “I’ll bring you some muffins or some shit, just…go over there and talk to him, _fuck_.”

Bitty now realised that he had accidentally acquired the phone of a famous person—even though he didn’t exactly know it so that wasn’t his fault. Technically. And maybe he was supposed to be impressed or intimidated but he’d never really given too much of a shit about Hockey after leaving Samwell so…

“Hey,” Bitty said as he slid into the seat, pushing the cup toward Jack.

He gave Bitty a careful look, then said, “Your friends recognised me, didn’t they.”

Bitty let out a nervous laugh. “Uh, yeah, I guess they did. I’m sorry, I’d say it was the whole celebrity thing but they’re kind of always like this.” They both glanced over, and Lardo and Ford began tripping over each other to appear busy. Rolling his eyes, he turned a grin back on Jack. “Does it help that I didn’t actually know who you were so the whole phone thing wasn’t on purpose.”

Jack’s lip quirked up in the corner. “Well…you _did_ seem a little out of sorts in the supermarket so I wasn’t sure…”

“Excuse me, Mr Hockey Guy,” Bitty said indignantly, “but just because I get a little flustered when I nearly kill myself tripping over a cute guy, but I’ll have you know…”

“Cute guy, eh?” Jack said, and his lip quirked up into a full grin.

Bitty let his head fall down next to his cup. “Just end me now. Seriously just…put me out of my misery.”

“I’d rather not,” Jack’s voice said, soft enough to draw Bitty’s gaze up. When their eyes connected, Jack licked his lips, then said, “I mean, you dying means I couldn’t ask you out. And I ah…really wanted to ask you out.”

If spontaneous combustion was really a think, Bitty would be nothing more than a pile of ash and smoke. Only it wasn’t, and he didn’t die. But he did blush so hard he got a little dizzy from it. “You had better not be messin’ with me, mister.”

“I’m not,” Jack said, hand to his heart. “Really. I actually stopped in the middle of the aisle because I was trying to figure out a way to get your attention and ah…break the ice? But you sort of did that for me.”

“I guess I did,” Bitty replied, nearly a whisper. He cleared his throat. “Lord, okay so. You want to go out. With me.”

“With you,” Jack confirmed. He then pushed his thumb to the button on his phone, and the screen flared to life. He opened up his contacts, then slid it across the counter. “Could I get your number?”

Bitty bit his lip to try and hide his huge grin as he nodded, reaching over to type it in. “You know, this is…not how I expected this afternoon to go. Here I was buying my sad pasta for one, and you come along…”

“And nearly commit murder?” Jack offered.

Bitty nodded sagely. “With those rock-hard pectorals. I almost got a concussion.”

Jack reached out slowly, letting his fingers brush feather light across Bitty’s brow. “Guess I should make it up to you then, eh?”

Bitty breathed, then smiled, and when Jack’s hand started to pull away, he caught it in his own. “I guess I should. Tonight to soon?”

Jack laughed softly. “Tonight is perfect.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> whereintheworldisbuckybarnes asked:  
> prompt: insecure Bitty

Crack.

Jack’s head whipped round at the sound of Bitty’s stick hitting the ice. He watched as the gloves were next, and Bitty’s hands–soft and clever–pushed into his hair.

Jack had known him, loved him, long enough to recognise the signs of stress. It was almost automatic, the way his legs moved, the way he shifted across the ice until he was in front of his boyfriend whose cheeks were pink–and not from the cold.

“Talk to me,” Jack said, lifting Bitty’s chin with the tips of his fingers.

Bitty swallowed, then shook his head

“Bud…”

“I just,” Bitty said, and there was tension in his tone which, before this moment, had been there but was underlying, soft, subtle. “I can’t do this.”

Jack blinked at him, his fingers moving from Bitty’s chin to his cheek. His palm was warm from the glove, and Bitty leant into it. “Can’t do what?”

“Any of it,” Bitty said. “I was so…I was so happy when I heard the vote. I couldn’t believe it, and I love those boys with my whole heart. But Jack I’m not…I’m no one’s captain. I’m not like you.”

“No, you’re not,” Jack said, and took Bitty by the shoulders gently. “You’re not like me. You’re different, and that’s…that’s good, Bits. That’s better. You’re the captain they need, and they saw that in you.”

“I’m never going to be a leading scorer,” Bitty said.

Jack’s eyes softened, and he curled one hand round the back of Bitty’s neck. “You don’t need to be. You need to know them, inside and out. Their strong points, their weak ones, how to talk to them, to motivate them, to keep them together. As a team. And you and I both know you can do that. There’s proof right here.” He took Bitty’s hand, pressing it over his heart. “You and me, what we have, is proof.”

Bitty swallowed thickly, daring to look up into Jack’s eyes, his hand pushing against the strong beat of Jack’s heart reflexively. “You helped with that one, you know.”

Jack chuckled, leaning down to nose against Bitty’s temple, to lay soft kisses there, over and over, and over again. “Yeah, bud. I know. But you played no small part, and they can see that. They voted you their captain because you’ve earnt it. And they need you.” Jack urged Bitty to look at him again, keeping his gaze firm, his tone matching it. “They believe in you, and so do I. You’ve got this.”

Bitty let out a shaking breath, then nodded and squared his shoulders. “Well, Mr Zimmermann, you haven’t lost your touch with those captain pep-talks. It’s like old times”

Jack chuckled softly, then cupped Bitty’s cheek once more, drawing him in for a kiss. “Except,” Jack said as they broke for air, “I get to kiss you after. And I think I like that better.”

Bitty laughed, his smile finally, finally reaching his eyes. “Yeah, honey. I think I do too.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> whereintheworldisbuckybarnes said:  
> Prompt: Older (and Successful) Jack and Bitty running into some of Bitty's old bullies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: mentions of past homophobia, homophobic language, past bullying

Swiping his hand across his brow, Bitty groaned and looked over at his husband who was suffering the weight of Georgia summer with much more grace and poise than he was. Which only spoke to how long he’d been gone.

“I can’t believe I signed up for this,” he moaned, letting his head fall on the counter. He realised, this close, what a pain in the ass it was going to be to sell this house all shaggy carpet and formica counters because his parents never bothered to upgrade.

“You literally asked for it,” Jack muttered, letting his hand pass along Bitty’s lower back. “You, with your very own mouth, told your parents,” Jack affected his terrible version of Bitty’s southern accent, “Don’t you worry, momma, you and daddy go have fun and Jack and I will take care of everything.”

Bitty wrinkled his nose at his husband. “Is that what I said?”

Jack sniffed at him, and pushed past him for the fridge. He took out a bottle of water and pressed it to the back of his neck and sighed with some relief. The tail end of June brought the worst of the heat, humidity, and storms—on of which was brewing on the horizon. “It’s exactly what you said.”

Bitty wanted to chirp him, wanted to give as good as he’s getting right now, but the heat had zapped any coherent thought from his brain and all he could think about was how the AC was broken, and they needed to get repairs going and sorted before Thursday when the realtor was going to do the first walk-through for the photos.

Then it hit him again that the house is being sold, and it was such a weird feeling. It probably showed on his face because Jack abandoned his shitty attitude and crossed the kitchen in about three long strides, to put his hands at Bitty’s hips. It was too hot to crowd Bitty into his chest like he clearly wanted to do—Bitty could read it all over his face, especially after all these years—but he pushed his thumbs into his skin gently.

“Are you okay?”

It was such a loaded question, really. Bitty had been conflicted about each and every return to Georgia. Even after the coming out went—well, as decent as he could have expected from his parents—it wasn’t exactly the opposite of tense. And even though things were okay with them, his parent’s weren’t keen on Bitty coming out to the rest of the family so it hadn’t ever felt great that when Jack finally did come out, and they could hold hands in public, they always had to tone it down here. In the place Bitty should have felt safest—his childhood home.

Except there was a sort of conflict because this was the place Bitty had come after things had been the worst they’d ever gotten. This had been a sanctuary of sorts. The place Bitty found hockey, which led him to Jack. Madison held the memory of his and Jack’s second kiss—under the stars, under a shower of fireworks—the most dreamy sort of second kiss a gay boy from Georgia could have asked for.

“Let’s get something to eat, eh?” Jack said, one hand drifting up through Bitty’s hair, wincing at the slightly tacky feel of sweat and hair product mingling together. “We’ll head back to the hotel after, make some calls about the AC. We’re not going to get anything done here in this heat.”

Bitty wanted to push through, but frankly Jack was right and he knew it, and a good meal and sitting in the nice, sweet AC of their hotel room would probably clear his head. It was no trouble at all to let Jack snag his fingers and pull him out the front door and to the car.

“Hey, bud?”

Bitty looked over, five minutes into the drive, with a small string of restaurants on the horizon. Luckily Jack had been back here enough times that he knew exactly where Bitty would want to go for comfort food, so he hadn’t even asked. “Yeah, sweetpea?”

Jack’s grin was involuntary at the sound of his nickname—one he hadn’t ever grown tired of, not for a single second. “Really, are you okay?”

Bitty sighed, letting his head fall against the warm window which was such a stark contrast to the frigid air coming from the small vent in the dash. “I…am, I guess? It’s such a weird feeling. It’s like…it’s like being nostalgic for a place you won’t really miss, where the bad memories outweigh the good.” Bitty pushed his head way from the window, letting it loll against the back of the headrest and he glanced at Jack again whose eyes hadn’t left the road. There was tension in his jaw though, for Bitty, and Bitty couldn’t help but feel bad about that. “This place always felt like waiting.”

Jack blinked. “Waiting?”

“To get out, to come out, for people to find out and hate me just so I could get it over with. Waiting to grow up so I could get the hell away and never look back. It wasn’t that easy. I mean, it was never going to be that easy, but to a thirteen year old boy who was healing from a fresh gay-bashing, I want it to be. Easy, that is.”

Jack swallowed thickly, then reached over, muscle memory guiding his hand to Bitty’s cheek, cupping it possessively, letting his thumb trace over his jaw.

Bitty sighed, and pushed his hand over Jack’s. “Coming back wasn’t the torture I thought it was going to be, baby. And I had you. That made whatever else I dealt with, more than worth it.”

“I love you,” Jack said quietly, and lord Bitty was never, ever going to get tired of hearing that.

They got to the little diner, and Jack managed to find a spot not too far off which made the slight burn of soggy tarmac under their feet tolerable. The inside had a fierce, sharp blast of cold air, and Bitty was grateful that there wasn’t a wait because all he wanted to do was hold Jack’s hand and kiss him, and he just didn’t want to deal with the backlash he’d get if he did that here.

They were given a booth away from the kitchen, and from the heat of the windows. Bitty sat across from Jack and let his legs stretch out, and let their ankles tangle together which was the only thing that brought him real comfort now. Neither of the said much to each other as they looked over the menu, and Bitty ignored Jack’s tiny little chuckle when he ordered a sweet tea, and some fried pickles to start.

It was no surprise when Jack ordered the chicken tenders, and Bitty eyed the BLT wrap long enough Jack just said, “Bring him that, he’ll like it.”

Bitty also ignored the way their server’s eyebrows shot up all suspicious like and curious because he just could not right now. Not today with their ever-growing laundry list of bullshit to sort through and fix before the next three days were up.

“I feel like a real grown-up now,” Bitty said after a little bit. He was stirring his straw through the clinking ice, watching the way it made beads of condensation run over the foggy glass. “Sellin’ that house.”

Jack cocked his head to the side. “ _That’s_ what makes you feel like a grown up? Not buying our own house together. Not getting _married_ , not your own book deal?”

Bitty rolled his eyes and kicked at his husband. “Okay that’s some of it. But…I remember my momma talking about stuff like this. About helpin’ out her great-auntie on the sale of some property and she said you’re not a real grown up until you sold somethin’ for someone who couldn’t, and until you planned a funeral. I’m not really in a hurry for number two, but this definitely fulfils number one.”

Jack’s eyes softened. “Yeah. I get that.”

“The marriage and the house does help prepare you, though,” Bitty said, and bit down on his straw, grinning round it. He loved the way Jack’s cheeks pinked, just a little. He loved the way that the small things still got his husband all worked up, even after all these years.

The food came shortly after, and Bitty was just digging into his wrap when he heard a voice too familiar for comfort. A sharp, nasty memory which hit him like a sack of bricks, that reminded him that even the move to Madison hadn’t been entirely the sanctuary he’d been craving. Because boys that shoved him into lockers were everywhere.

“Bits?” Jack asked, and Bitty realised his cheeks were tingling and probably very white. “Hey, do we need to…” He stopped when he followed Bitty’s eyeline to a table not far off.

Three men—looking more middle aged than not with receding hairlines tucked under trucker hats, badly trimmed facial hair, beady, tired eyes of the remnants of high school football stars who never really got far in life. 

The Daves.

“Who are they?” Jack asked as Bitty turned back to his food.

“The Daves,” Bitty said, then took a large bite. He grimaced as a bit of bacon got stuck between his teeth, and he sighed, tonguing at it. “They were like the Chads,” and then he almost laughed at the way Jack’s face still went all dark and angry and he half expected Jack to burst out with a, “Ffffuck the LAX bros.”

“Tell me they weren’t the ones who…”

“No,” Bitty said, then glanced over at them. He hadn’t been noticed yet, but Bitty didn’t think his luck was going to hold out much longer. “No not…that. But ah…well, they weren’t much nicer.”

Jack’s jaw twitched, then he nodded. “I see.” And then, surprising Bitty which in reality was a little ridiculous because Jack himself was ridiculous and should have ceased surprising Bitty anymore—he got up out of his seat, grabbed his plate, and plonked down on Bitty’s side of the booth.

“Honey,” Bitty said.

“Let me have this,” Jack said. “If you really don’t want me here, I’ll move. But I don’t like it when anyone puts that look on your face. You’ve worked too hard to ever feel like that again.”

Bitty swallowed, his throat tight and hot from affection and the desire to cry a little, even if he had no plans to give into that. Instead he just reached over and twisted their fingers together and let his head fall on Jack’s shoulder.

His luck of a quiet, calm lunch lasted exactly fifteen more minutes when Dave Number Two got up from his seat, went to the toilet, and came back. He had to pass their table, and he froze when Bitty had a bite halfway to his mouth.

“Holy shit. Bittle.”

Letting the tired sigh fall from his chest, he raised his eyebrows. “Do I know you?”

There. It was what Bitty had been angling for. The look of mild disbelief and offense, and the slight pink of the guy’s cheeks because in that second he realised he’d been _forgotten_. Which, he hadn’t, but he didn’t need to _know_ that.

Dave Two blinked another second, then went back to his table and Bitty didn’t need a line of sight to know he was leaning in and whispering to the other Daves about what he’d just seen. That Queer Bittle kid they used to intimidate and hip-check into lockers, and hit this side of too hard during dodge ball.

“New number, who dis,” Bitty said, then snickered when Jack’s lips twitched. “That felt kind of good.”

“Just kind of?” Jack pressed.

Bitty shrugged one shoulder, then turned to face Jack fully. “Considering I know what’s waitin’ for me behind that closed hotel door, yeah. Just kind of.”

Jack’s cheeks pinked and he drew in his bottom lip, letting it fall from between his teeth slow and tempting. Bitty didn’t need to wait. He cupped Jack’s face with his hand and drew him in for a kiss.

He broke when he felt eyes on him, and pulled back from his husband to stare at Dave One who apparently had been brave enough to venture over. “So it’s true. You really was a queer.”

Bitty blinked. “I mean, yeah? It didn’t exactly take rocket science to figure that one out, did it?” Bitty said.

Dave One’s face did a strange thing, twitching through a few different expressions like he wasn’t entirely sure how to react to Bitty’s nonchalant acceptance.

“So did you like…need something? My husband and I are trying to finish our lunch here.” He sounded braver than he felt. There was a tiny piece of him that was still that scared kid trying to avoid being seen in the hallways. But Jack’s hand was still on him, and Jack was just staring, a mildly bored expression on his face like he couldn’t be bothered to even react to this guy’s presence. It was perfect. He was perfect. God he’d never been more grateful for his husband.

“I just didn’t think,” Dave said, then stopped, seemingly at a loss for words.

Bitty smiled sweetly. “Don’t worry, you go on and have yourself a seat, and if you think of what you were gonna say, you can just find me on facebook. Or if you’re gonna be near Atlanta next month, I’m doing a couple of book signings. You’re more’n welcome to catch me there.”

Brave. He was brave. He loved, and he was loved right back, and his life was great, and suddenly it didn’t matter because this guy hadn’t bothered to be anything other than exactly what Bitty had always thought he’d be. And maybe that was the best revenge of all.

He half expected a bigger fight, but these guys hadn’t been in brawling condition in years, and Jack was still cut and fit, and definitely intimidating with his cool, heavy stare and Bitty certainly didn’t mind using his husband’s brawn for his own gain. They had, after all, vowed to share everything during their wedding vows.

“You done, babe?” Jack asked, taking a last drink of his tea as Dave One stepped back slowly. Jack reached into his pocket for a wad of cash—probably way more than the bill was going to be but…whatever. He stuck it under the salt shaker, and then shuffled out of the booth making Dave One trip over his own feet to get to his table.

Bitty smiled as he took Jack’s offered hand, and their fingers tangled together and they didn’t spare a single glance backward as they left. As much as Bitty wanted to. But apathy was truly the cruellest thing he could give these men—the idea that they’d been forgotten, that their torment hadn’t left a single moment of impact on Bitty’s life.

It was a lie. It had. Of course it had, but Bitty had earnt that moment of letting them believe they were nothing to him.

Climbing into the car, Jack pulled out onto the street, and dared a look at his husband who was leant back against the headrest once more, this time a faint smile on his face.

“I did okay?”

Bitty turned his head, and reached out, letting the tips of his fingers trace Jack’s jawline. “Oh sweetpea, you were perfect. You’re always perfect. That’s what makes this whole thing tolerable.”

Jack let out a tiny chuckle, then seized Bitty’s hand, pulling it to his mouth to press a kiss to the tips of each finger, then to the centre of his palm. “Hotel now. For those phone calls and…other stuff?”

Bitty laughed. “Yeah, baby. Except maybe we can do other stuff… _then_ the phone calls.”

Jack’s grin widened, and he stepped on the gas a little harder.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Anon- “i drunk texted u thinking u were my ex and in the morning i woke up to a hangover and a long ass text from u telling me i could do better and shit” au

**I know I owe u som e aplogies bt eveyretime i try i cnat stop thnking abt q adn u jsut showd up at teh haus adn u cnat do tht kenny its unfar ok???**

_Hey, I don’t know who this is or who Kenny is but…are you okay? You sound either real upset or real drunk._

**Kenny?**

_No, this isn’t Kenny._

**Crisse dcaliesse dtabarnkak**

_I’m not sure that was English, sweetheart. Or any language at all._

**do u spkea french?**

_Ah no, no French. I barely have a grasp on English._

**IM drunk. Thout u were my ex bf sry.**

_That explains it. You alright?_

**I dnt knw**

_You wanna talk? My roommate’s out and if talking on the phone would make things easier? My name’s Eric, by the way._

***

“Hello?” Eric didn’t expect to be nervous. It’s not like he’d never dealt with some drunk co-ed before, but he didn’t know who she was going to be. He most certainly didn’t expect the rich, deep, accented voice on the other end of the call.

“I don’t know why I’m calling.”

The voice was distinctly less slurred than Eric expected, considering the state of the text messages, which was either a talent, or some sort of elaborate prank.  
“Sounds like it was a bad night, hon,” Eric said, then winced, not sure this guy would be open to southern terms of endearment. When he didn’t receive anger on the other end, he carried on. “Do you want to tell me about it? It might help, you know, since I’m a total stranger.”

There was a sigh, then, “My ex showed up here tonight. I…there was a party here. Where I live. I don’t drink–I never drink. But then he was here and we got…there was…a fight,” he muttered something else distinctly not English, then said, “I can’t stop shaking.”

“Oh, honey,” Eric said, then stopped himself. “Is he gone? Or is he hangin’ round?”

“He’s gone. He left when Sh–when my roommate saw I was upset. He stayed for a bit. He’s…people know him. Some people know him,” the guy amended. There was a heavy thunk, then he said, “Things are so complicated. I’m so drunk, I hate this feeling. I don’t want to be drunk anymore.”

“Okay. Do you have water?” He wanted to know the guy’s name now, but he didn’t want to push him into something uncomfortable. “Drink some water, okay, and just breathe. Maybe sit by an open window and you just keep talkin’ to me until the shaking stops and you feel like you can lay down.”

“I don’t want to be alone,” he whispered, and Eric’s heart ached hard, desperate, wishing he was somewhere close enough to give this guy a hug.

“You’re not alone. Sounds like you got some real nice people in that house of yours, and I’m right here. Not going anywhere until you’re ready.”

There was a pause, then something that sounded like a gentle chuckle. “Why?”

“Why what, sweetheart?”

“Why are you so nice? Why would you…I’m just some guy. Just some asshole who can’t even get through some basic Samwell party without completely falling apart and texting a total stranger and I don’t even know how I did that…”

Samwell. He was at Samwell. Eric didn’t draw attention to that. Not when it sounded like the poor guy was crying now. “Hey. Hey, you’re not an asshole. You said it was complicated and that tends to mean that it’s not all on one person, right? I mean, I’m not an expert. I’m just some southern gay boy fresh out of a closet with no experience and no idea what to do with boys but…”

“I’m sorry. I’m…I shouldn’t…”

“You should,” Eric said, using the stern tone he’d learnt from his momma, “be doin’ exactly what you’re doin’ right now. Drinkin’ water, talkin’ to me. You got yourself some water, hon?”

There was a pause, then he said, “Yes. Yeah. I have water.”

“Good.”

“I wasn’t a good boyfriend,” he said after a long pause. “I…things got bad, my mental health began to deteroriate. He wasn’t good for me, so I left and he…he hasn’t let me forget the way I just left. I didn’t try, and that was my fault and…”

“No,” Eric said fiercely. “Like I said, I’m no expert, but you have every right to stop seeing or talking to anyone who is making life harder for you. You don’t need a reason to walk away from people. The only thing you need to do is take care of yourself. You don’t owe anyone anything.”

There was another pause, then he said, “I know. My therapist helped. I just…I still owe him an apology. I have to own up to what I did. But why did he have to…why did he show up here? Why does he keep showing up here.”

“I think when you’re not drunk, when your texting can make sense, you tell him that. You know where you went wrong, but boundaries are boundaries and you need to set them. And he needs to respect them. You deserve that.”

“That’s what Shitty would say.”

Eric blinked. He knew that name. Lord, he knew that name. Everyone on campus knew that name. “Well, he sounds like a good friend, even if he is called Shitty.”

The guy laughed. “It’s a hockey thing. I should…I feel better. I should go. I’m sorry, Eric.”

Hearing his name in the lilt of the guy’s accent, knowing the guy–even this drunk–remembered it, made him feel…something. “I think that’s a good idea, hon. You get some good rest and I think everything will feel better and make a lot more sense in the morning.”

The guy chuckled again. “Okay. Goodnight, Eric.”

“Good night.”

The call ended before Eric felt ready, so he picked up his phone again and opened the text thread back up, sending one more, to close out the night.

_I know you said it was complicated, and I know part of whatever happened was your fault, but I also know you deserve better, and I’m willing to bet you’ll find it. I hope you have a peaceful sleep, and I hope tomorrow is a better day._

With that, he put his phone down, crawled into bed, and closed his eyes.

*** 

Jack didn’t get hung over often, and he didn’t even entirely remember drinking so when he woke up with his hand clenched round his phone and his brain threatening to beat out of his skull, he was…surprised.

It all came back, in fits and bursts–with the memory of Parse showing up, and of Jack shaking apart, and of grabbing the nearest bottle of rum and letting himself go in a way he hadn’t in years.

He also remembered that trying to text Parse was a good idea, and panic set in as he fumbled with his phone screen to see the damage he’d done.

It was dead, so the minutes it took to boot up were the longest of his life, but finally there was a notification on his screen. (1) New Text Message. The contact was unfamiliar, and he realised after a second it was the guy Shitty had told him to text about his Food and Culture class when he realised how stuck he was on the baking part.

Bittle.

His thumb swiped the message, and with growing horror, he read over the thread. Until he came to the end, to Bittle’s last message.

Then the conversation from last night began to trickle through his hang over fog. How Bittle had talked him through it, how he’d kept him calm and reassured him, and made him feel far less of an asshole than he deserved to feel right then.

The final text was…

Well.

Jack found himself replying before he could talk himself out of it.

**I am so sorry about last night. I had your number in my phone from Shitty who said you might be able to help me wiht my Food and Culture class. I didn’t mean to dump all that on you.**

**That being said, it helped. A lot. Today already feels better. Can I make it up to you? Coffee at Annie’s?**

Nearly an hour went by–a shower, some breakfast and coffee–before Jack got a reply.

_That sounds great, hon. Also…I don’t exactly know your name._

**I’m so sorry. It’s Jack. Zimmermann.**

**Um.**

**If you could maybe not mention all of that to anyone…**

_My lips are sealed. I can be at Annie’s by ten, if that works for you._

**I’ll be there.**

*** 

Eric felt his breath knocked from his chest, not just at the fierce yet soft and sleepy blue eyes that looked at him, but also at the way Jack’s lips curved into a surprised smile when he set his gaze on Eric. Like maybe, somehow, Eric was who he was hoping to see.

He cleared his throat as Jack held the door, and almost ascended as Jack’s hand touched, very carefully, the small of his back.

“Get whatever you want, it’s on me,” Jack murmured into his ear. “I owe you.”

Eric beamed, then touched Jack’s hand lightly. “Alright, hon. But really, you don’t owe me anything.”

Jack’s eyes were warm and full of purpose as he kept Eric’s gaze and said, “Yeah. I do. And I’m definitely okay with repaying that debt.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For anon and itallstartedwithharry- “ur the really sassy blind kid in my class who always brightens up my day with ur remarks and one day u confront me abt why i always laugh” au

“…and that’s why you’re wrong.”

There was a pause in the class, the students holding their breath staring up at the professor who seemed to possess the patience of a saint. The student, who had seemed to make his educational career in trying to show the professor up on his knowledge of ancient Sumerian history, waited patiently.

Then, from the end of the front row, came a light snort. “Are you done?”

Jack, who sat a few seats back, couldn’t help his instant laugh. Eric, the guy was called, hadn’t once kept his mouth shut when Chad the Know-It-All decided to take over lecture. And Jack couldn’t help his chuckles each time because watching Eric verbally eviscerate Chad the Know-It-All was like watching art being made.

Chad rolled his eyes toward Eric, his gaze flickering down to where Eric’s fingers had stilled on his braille text, then he sighed. “I’m just saying…”

“We all heard what you were saying, sweetheart. We know,” Eric said, cutting him off. He leant forward in his seat, leaning in toward Chad. “But see, here’s the thing, darlin’. Most of us paid good money to be sat here. In our seats, listenin’ to this nice man, who got his doctorate at Yale, teach us what he knows. I don’t recall signing my name on any dotted line that said Chad the Big-Mouth was gonna be takin’ up half my time with his wikipedia nonsense.”

Jack laughed again, and he didn’t miss the way Eric’s ear tipped toward him just slightly. He held his breath, then, not wanting to stop whatever was going to happen.

“It’s a discussion class,” Chad protested.

“Indeed it is. I just don’t recall lecture discussions consisting of people sitting in their seats thinking their hours on google qualified them to talk over the professor during his lecture. Or was I mistaken about who was teaching this class? They didn’t send me my timetable in braille so one of my dormmates might have read the professor’s name out wrong. Does anyone else’s timetable have Professor Chad printed on it?”

There was a tittering laugh, and eventually the professor stood up and cleared his throat. “Thank you, Mr Bittle. I do believe my name was on there, but I’d be happy to double check if you’d like.”

“For my peace of mind. I’d hate to think my blindness caused me to speak out of turn,” Eric said, and turned his face right toward Chad in an epic stare-down.  
Chad, for his part, pinked in the cheek and sank into his seat.

Jack laughed again, and Eric, just slightly, turned toward him again.

*** 

Jack was putting his things into his bag the second class was over, and laughed again when he heard Chad mutter something about student services and changing professors. He checked his messages on his phone as he was heading out the door, and nearly tripped over a person still there.

His face blushed hot when he realised it was Eric. He was holding the door open with a big grin, his cane gripped in his hand, his back hooked over his shoulder, and he let the door close just as Jack stepped out.

“Sorry,” Jack said.

Eric shook his head. “I kind of meant to do that. I was trying to catch you before you left but you weren’t looking up from your phone.”

“You could tell?” Jack blurted, then blushed. “Shit. Sorry.”

Eric snorted a laugh, waving him off as they started toward the stairs. “It’s fine. And yeah, I can tell. I can see…I mean not great, it’s pretty shit, but better, I guess, out here.”

“Oh.” Jack hesitated. “Uh. Did you want something, or…”

“Just wonderin’ what you find so funny about my comments, mister. Don’t think I can’t hear those little giggles of yours every time I open my fat mouth.”

Jack blushed harder, gripping the banister along the wall as they headed for the main doors. He didn’t speak until they were outside, and he was watching Eric shove a reflective pair of aviators over his eyes. “You’re funny,” he confessed. “You say everything everyone else is thinking and it’s nice.”

“Well I’m reall tired of Chad runnin’ his mouth. Not all of us are here on daddy’s dime, and I’d like to think I have some say in how I’m educated. It’s enough of a fight dealing with this,” he flicked the side of his shades, “and trying to get accomidations. I don’t need some jackass–pardon my language–deraling that nice man every ten minutes.”

Jack sighed, feeling a slight wash of guilt because he was–in a manner of speaking–here on his father’s dime. And maybe that’s why he never spoke up. Maybe it was easier to not think of his education as precious or at risk of being wasted because a lecture was derailed.

“Hey,” Eric said, drawing Jack out of his thoughts. “Did I lose you?”

“Oh. Ah. No,” Jack said, rubbing the back of his neck. “No sorry just…I never thought about it that way. Makes sense.”

“Don’t tell me your head was on the ice just now,” Eric chirped, and Jack’s eyes widened. After a beat of silence, Eric laughed. “Yeah, I know who you are Mr Zimmermann. I’ve been to a game or two.”

“Well I wasn’t thinking about hockey,” Jack defended, crossing his arms over his chest and trying not to blush when Eric laughed again. It wasn’t a lie either. Granted, most of the time at least half of Jack’s head was in the next game, but not right now. Not at this moment. At this moment he was distracted by the way Eric’s smile lifted higher in the left corner than at the right. Or the way the sun made his hair look like he had copper strands amongst the blonde. Or the freckles across his nose which looked like a constellation.

Or how he really, really wanted ot ask him to coffee.

“I could use some caffeine,” he blurted. “I heard uh…Annie’s has those pumpkin thingies.”

“Oh my god,” Eric groaned dramatically. “Pumpkin thingies?”

Jack shrugged helplessly. “They have whipped cream? I don’t know! I never drink them.”

“Give me your arm,” Eric demanded.

Jack obeyed without question, and shuddered when Eric’s hand curled against the inside of his elbow. “You need ah…”

“No,” Eric said slyly, “but no one’s going to ask questions if it looks like you’re leadin’ a blind guy to coffee. Which, by the way, you’re buying.”

“I…yes,” Jack fumbled as they began the trek forward. “Of course.”  
Eric laughed again, and it was probably the best sound Jack would hear all day.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:  
> "we’ve been married for 2 years now and u just had surgery that left u real fucking dopey and u keep telling me that u wanna take me out and marry me”

“He’s asking for you,” the nurse says, and Bitty looks up from his phone, his entire body aching from being tense for hours. He rises, and the nurse beckons him toward a short corridor with two, very massive doors. “Just to warn you, he’s still coming off the anaesthetic, so it might take him a little while to come out of it.”

It’s been an hour, but Bitty knows Jack’s tolerance for those sorts of things is pretty low. He had a simple surgery on his knee a year ago and slept nearly a full twenty-four hours after. So hearing that after something this major is…well, it’s not surprising.

Bitty’s led into the recovery area, which is huge, filled with hospital beds behind drawn curtains, the nurse’s station in the middle hustling and bustling with busy work. 

Jack’s at the very end of the row, and Bitty slips in just to hear Jack’s dulcet, French tones saying, “…and the Napoleon stormed France, marched under the Eiffel Tower, and stabbed Caesar.”

The nurse, whose currently checking some sort of machine thingie Jack’s hooked up to, looks up and grins at Bitty. “We’ve got our very own historian here, looks like.”

Bitty flushes. “He has a history degree. Um. I’m not sure I’d trust anything he says but…”

“Oh.” Jack’s voice is soft and breathy, and Bitty looks down, prepared to apologise for the offense, but Jack’s eyes are all dreamy and soft and staring right at Bitty. “Are you the new doctor. The last one was not this beautiful.”

Bitty flushes harder, in spite of being married to this ridiculous, ridiculous man for two years now. “No, honey. I’m not a doctor.”

Jack’s cheeks go pink and he lifts one arm, then flops it back down to the sheets. “You just called me honey.”

“I did, yes,” Bitty says, amused.

“Does that mean I can take you out.” Jack tips his head back to the nurse and stage-whispers, “Do you think he’d go out with me.”

She grins, winks, says, “I think there’s a good chance.”

Jack somehow manages to seize Bitty’s hand, and drags him close. “I would marry you. Right now, here in this bed, I’d do it. I’d…I’d do it.” His thumb brushes up against Bitty’s ring, and his eyes go comically wide, filling instantly with tears. “You’re already married,” he chokes.

Bitty fights back a giggle. “Yes, sweetpea, I am.”

“My heart is breaking,” Jack sobs, and Bitty wants to die right there. This boy.

He shuffles closer. “Honey, it’s okay. Really. We’re married. You and me.”

“No,” Jack says. “No, we can’t be. See, I don’t have a ring.” He displays his bare hand like it’s all the evidence he needs.

With the smallest, fondest sigh, Bitty reaches into his pocket where he was keeping Jack’s. Jack’s fingers are still too swollen from the fluids in the IV, but Bitty presses the ring to his palm. “This is yours, baby. It’ll fit in a little while, once the swelling goes down.”

“Oh.” Jack stares at the ring for a minute, then lolls his head back and stares at Bitty’s face. “So…is that a yes? You will marry me?”

Bitty giggles and brushes Jack’s fringe back from his face. “Yeah, sweetpea. That’s a yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> All prompts are on [tumblr](https://angryspace-ravenclaw.tumblr.com), and I will update tags and warnings with each drabble posted. I'll be writing them during my research breaks--some will be short, others longer. But all should be adorable and fun!


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